About a Pie
by who is sabrina
Summary: The Skipper comes to understand that Gilligan was telling the truth the whole time. Episode tag to "Gilligan Vs. Gilligan", picking up right after the end of the episode. Disclaimer: I don't own Gilligan's Island.


"Good night," Gilligan muttered, voice muffled by the blanket he had thrown over himself in fear.

The Skipper swallowed, feeling something akin to panic swirl around within him. A knife that could have had over 200 functions? The possibility of a death ray? Was it mere coincidence that the Professor had found an item that appeared to match Gilligan's description exactly? He let out a slow, calming breath, trying to reassure himself. But the question resurfaced anyway: what if Gilligan had been telling the truth?

Fear, guilt, and concern warred for dominance within him, and the Skipper wrung his hands, hesitant. It would be easier to ignore the Professor's find - to ignore the evidence that could prove Gilligan's truthfulness (and sanity), and instead choose to write everything off as a strange product of his first mate's guilty conscience. At any rate, this was the path that Gilligan seemed wont to take; the sailor's head remained carefully covered by the unmoving blanket. The Skipper, for his part, knew that there were many men that would prefer this route. Why consider the possibility of something so horrible? It was simpler to forget the matter completely. It was more convenient to bury your head in the sand - to run the other direction and never look back.

The Skipper, however, was not one of those men.

"No," he said firmly, standing up straight and looking at the gray blanket under which Gilligan lay. Slowly, cautiously, fingers appeared and gripped the edges of the blanket, then lowered it until Gilligan's shining blue eyes were revealed, filled with fear and touched with confusion.

"No?" Gilligan repeated curiously.

"No," the Skipper said again, adamantly. "I can't let this go." His first mate pulled the blanket down the rest of the way, and then sat up, still watching his captain uncertainly.

"You… won't?" Gilligan asked. His voice shook slightly with fear, for this was one circumstance in which being crazy was the better option. Were they really going to bring everything up again? Part of him wished that the Skipper would drop the matter; personally, he would rather forget the night he had spent out in the cold, voice growing hoarse from trying to shout through the gag, wrists being chafed by the ropes tied tightly around them. He would rather forget the other castaways' blatant disbelief, their easy dismissals of his supposedly made-up stories. But the sailor looked into the Skipper's eyes, and saw the determination there.

"Of course I can't let this go," the Skipper told him gently but firmly. "Frankly, Gilligan, the possibility that you were telling the truth the whole time - the possibility that I didn't believe you when you needed me to-" the Skipper stopped, swallowed the lump in his throat that threatened to render him speechless. "That possibility _terrifies_ me," he finished. "But I need to know the truth, little buddy. If something really did happen, if you're not okay, I _need_ to know." At these words, he stepped forward and placed a hand bracingly on Gilligan's shoulder. The young sailor looked down, watched his hands as he picked at the blanket, stalling for time. Unbidden, he thought of the _other_ Gilligan, sleeping soundly in _this_ hammock, laughing with _his_ Skipper, kept warm by _his_ blanket. The first mate's eyes welled with tears. He lifted his head and finally met eyes with the Skipper.

"I really didn't eat the pie," he whispered.

The Skipper felt like someone had punched him in the gut. Both of them knew full well that it wasn't really about the pie. Whatever stories Gilligan had been telling had _not_ been stories, but the truth. The cold, hard, horrifying truth.

"Tell me again," the Skipper said, continuing relentlessly onward, "what you were trying to say earlier, when I was trying to get you to go fishing. I wasn't really listening," the Skipper admitted, shamefaced. "We thought you were going crazy, and the Professor said that if we wanted to help you, the best thing we could do was play along."

" _That's_ why nobody cared what happened," Gilligan realized, feeling slightly relieved. It still stung that they hadn't believed him, but at least it explained their complete and total lack of concern. "How come you guys thought I was crazy? Just because of the pie, and seeing myself?"

"Well, no," the Skipper replied, his brow crinkling in confusion. "It was because of the way you were acting last night and this morning - blaming me for wrecking the Minnow, throwing yourself at Ginger, upsetting Mr. Howell." But as he listed off these things, he could see the surprise and bewilderment in Gilligan's features. He thought of the supposed double of Gilligan, and everything began to slide slowly into place, like adjusting the focus on a telescope. A dawning sense of dread made his insides squirm, and he felt like he was on the deck of a tossing ship in the middle of a violent storm. Fear fell on him like rain, running down his back in icy chills.

"Skipper," Gilligan said seriously, "you know I would never do any of those things. Especially blaming you for the shipwreck. It's only because of you that all seven of us aren't dead and lost to the sea." And now shame began to crash over the Skipper in waves. His first mate, his dear friend, his little buddy - how had he not noticed an impostor?

"It wasn't you," the Skipper said aloud, the implications of that simple statement staggering him. Part of him wanted to collapse in the nearest chair, but the larger part of him could not afford to let Gilligan out of his sight for even the briefest of seconds. "It- it was your double, or your impostor, or whoever that was. _He_ came into the camp, stayed with us, ate with us." The Skipper looked revolted at the thought. "That's why you weren't behaving like yourself. It was him, trying to be you."

"Yeah," Gilligan agreed gently. He started to nod, but then stopped quickly; his head still hurt from where the spy had knocked him unconscious. The Skipper was silent for a moment, and the sailor, too, said nothing. It was undoubtedly a lot for the Skipper to process.

"But then," the Skipper began slowly, "if he was here, then where… where were _you_?" Fear began to build inside the captain, and Gilligan could see it escalate in the silence, until he could practically feel the Skipper's panic radiating off of him in waves. "Gilligan, what did you tell me earlier?" the Skipper asked, a pleading, desperate sort of edge to his voice. " _Where were you?_ "

"I was…" Gilligan began, but he stopped again. Looked away from the Skipper's eyes. Could he do this? Could he tell the Skipper the truth, knowing the guilt and pain it would cause him? Perhaps the Skipper could sense these thoughts; he put both hands on either side of Gilligan, and turned him until they were facing each other.

"Little buddy, I'm _sorry_. I'm feeling very guilty already," he admitted, "but not telling me what happened isn't gonna make it any better. It'll make it worse, in fact." The young sailor bit his lip and looked down again, away from the Skipper's gaze. But the older man placed two gentle fingers underneath his first mate's chin and tilted his head up until they met eyes once more. Then he crossed his arms, demonstrating his resolve. "Gilligan," he repeated. "I _need_ to know."

A beat of silence. Another.

"I was hit over the head and kidnapped."

The Skipper only groaned, a hand reaching out to grab onto Gilligan's hammock for support.

"Skipper?" Gilligan asked worriedly, for the man in question had turned an alarming shade of white. But in a moment, the Skipper seemed to regain his composure, and he reached up to pull Gilligan's white sailor's hat off his head.

"Let me see," the Skipper ordered kindly, and Gilligan leaned forward obligingly. The older man ran his hand along the back of Gilligan's head, and felt a bump there, not missing the way Gilligan winced. He _had_ been hit over the head, and hard. At least there wasn't any blood. Inspection finished, he handed Gilligan his hat back, who replaced it on his head and sat up straight again, watching the Skipper carefully.

"Where else are you hurt?" the Skipper asked.

"Ropes," Gilligan mumbled, and he pulled back his sleeves and held his arms out. Both wrists were scraped and bloody. The Skipper could suddenly see his first mate in the cold night air, struggling determinedly against his bonds, unwilling to give up even as they cut into his skin.

"And?"

"That's it," Gilligan told him, but the Skipper looked disbelieving. "That's really it," Gilligan reiterated earnestly. "I mean, when he left, he was going to-" He cut off, looking down pointedly at his lap. He would not watch the Skipper's expression now. "He was going to kill me," he said hurriedly, as if saying it in a rush would make it easier. "But he didn't!" Gilligan added quickly. "I mean, obviously. I'm alive. But he never did anything because his boat took off, and he had to catch it. You know, because he started his boat before he saw me, so then when he tried to kill me, it started to leave without him, and…" The sailor trailed off, realizing he was babbling. He finally allowed himself to look up. The Skipper was watching him with an incredible, crushing kind of sadness. And then, without words, he pulled Gilligan into a fierce hug, powerful and strong.

"I can't apologize enough," the Skipper said gruffly, voice thick with emotion. "I should've believed you. I should've known it wasn't really you last night. I should've stuck with you when we went searching for your double. Heck, I should've believed that you found an empty pie pan." They pulled apart, and the Skipper headed immediately for the water bucket, which he set on the table. Then he turned and headed for their first aid kit.

Without needing to be told, Gilligan slid carefully out of his hammock and sat down at the table, shaking back his sleeves and exposing his injured wrists. The Skipper sat down heavily across from him, dipped a clean cloth in water, and then began to clean his first mate's wrists with a care and attention that would have surprised anyone else.

"Thanks, Skipper," Gilligan said quietly. "And just so you know, I don't blame you guys. I wouldn't have believed me either. I almost don't believe me _now_." The Skipper smiled warmly at him, the kind of smile that reminded Gilligan of sleepy sunsets in Honolulu, and calm days at sea, and hot dinners around the communal table.

"Tomorrow, I'll get Mary Ann to bake a whole pie just for you."

"Coconut cream?"

"And pineapple."


End file.
